Drown my Woe
by kingmaker
Summary: The Witch King walks into a bar... and proceeds to think too much, despite his best intentions.


Drown my Woe

(Warning: Silliness ahead. This, after many false starts, is my answer to the reviewers who requested another composition about the Witch King in the style of _Too Easy_. Characters belong to Tolkien, to whom I apologize for scratching such a ridiculous plot bunny, the title comes from the hobbit drinking song on the FotR:EE, and I'm making no money, though hopefully a few reviews, from this.)

A tall, dark man sits in the shadowy corner of the bar, the low light combining with his oversized black robes to surround him with an air of mystery that would, on most nights, draw the eyes of most of the patrons to him. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on whether his primary goal for the evening is to meet women or get sloshed, this is not 'most nights' and his presence goes largely unnoticed. Not entirely, however, for as he nurses his bourbon a blonde for whom 'hot' is decidedly the correct adjective sidles over and settles her shapely form into the stool adjacent to his own.

"Hey, baby. Buy you a drink?"

She smiles flirtatiously. "Maybe. What's your name?"

He tells her.

Her eyebrows narrow. She can't tell whether or not he's being serious. She decides he isn't. She laughs loudly but nervously. He reiterates that he's serious. She frowns, apparently deciding that he isn't her type, and withdraws into the noisy chaos of the rest of the room.

Meh. I'd like to see you try scoring with a name like 'The Witch King.' The first part is generally associated with females in backward societies, and the second inspires incredulity at best and egalitarian indignation at worst. If I had a beer for every time someone told me "I didn't know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective," I'd have, well, at least three beers.

Speaking of which, I decide to consume one as I turn my attention back to said noisy chaos. The Other Eight are drifting around with their beverages of choice as they make conversation and/or check out the jewelry adorning the hands of other patrons. It's an obsession we have. What can I say? And in any case, they aren't the cause of the noisy chaos. Most would blame the group we call the _Corpus_ of Sauron, but I prefer to hold Gothmog and the Orc Lieutenants responsible. The Mouth is a pretty chill dude, as long as you avoid bringing up any questions of Gorthaurian theology, about which he, in his role as chief priest of Sauron, tends to be quite a stickler. The rest of the _Corpus_ is tolerable to varying degrees, although each tends to be quite quirky in his own idiom, but all are preferable to the orcs, especially when liquor plays into the equation. Like the Other Eight, the tolerability level of the _Corpus_ moves along a parabolic curve, initially increasing relative to quantity of alcohol consumed before reaching the point of diminishing returns. The orcs, on the other hand, follow a straight downward slope the farther they are from sober. I believe the exact equations are scribbled in the margins of one of my ultimately failed attempts to mathematically prove that the Timeless Void is a place called New York and Melkor has changed his name to George Stein-something-or-other.

Meh. End of digression. Regarding the chaos, none of the _Corpus_ is exactly being quiet, but only the infamous Digestive Tract of Sauron is being rude about it. Fortunately, we dropped off the Nose at a wine-tasting party on the way over, so we won't have to worry about him passing out from something other than having imbibed too much. The worst culprits, in my less-than-humble opinion, are Gothmog and the Orc Lieutenants. Despite having hit nothing harder than beers (light beers, at that), they're already trying to woo the ladies with their 'celebrated song stylings.' As if. We all know that modern orcish music is crap, and any orcish music while inebriated is best used as a torture device. I only hope that I am totally dead to the world before they discover the karaoke machine in the corner. Or that the Ears has the foresight to unplug it before then. Otherwise the poor fool who bought the machine will be spending the rest of his life haunted by the memory of the horror he unwittingly unleashed on the innocent bar patrons of the Greater Haudh in Gwanûr Area.

If you've not guessed, the Eye gave us the night off, so we have returned to our favorite dive in South Ithilien, the Oasis, known for its diverse clientele and excellent mixed drinks. It's not the Drunk Dragon, which fell along with my holding of Angmar in more than name, but it suffices. Of course, those were days when a dozen beers could floor me, as opposed to twice that many shots, but whatever. "No living man can kill me" applies, insofar as I know, to beverages served by men. As the bartender brings me a whiskey sour, it occurs to me to wonder whether I could drink myself to death or otherwise bring about my own end. Now that's a discomfiting thought. Certainly not the kind of thing I should be contemplating when I'm trying to relax. I down the drink and give a louder-than-necessary belch as I call for another.

Meh. At least I'm not making a total ass of myself like Gothmog. There was this gaggle of girls sitting in the corner booth, most of whom, based on their facial expressions, had never been in a bar before, with the rest having never been in a bar before legally. Stupid archaic legal system. A twenty-year-old Haradrim can be stolen from his dull nomadic existence, plunked on the back of an oliphaunt (as an aside, how many people truly appreciate how unpleasant these creatures are? There are good reasons that Morgoth never used them: in the presence of sharp, pointy sticks, your chances of controlling them range from theoretically impossible to mathematically -I've done the calculations- impossible, they're pretty much useless in combat except to intimidate those who've never seen them before, and let's just say that there is a very good reason that Sauron keeps one in a pen adjacent to the torture chambers), and sent off to another futile war with Gondor yet not lawfully get sloshed the night before. Honestly, what gives?

Anyway, every male in the house (except for Ashratul, who we don't talk about) had been eyeing them, and that idiot orc commander had to go try and pick one up and instead he winds up christening their table with partially-digested beer. Poor dears hadn't even had a chance to start on their second round. As they exit, one of them squeals and claps her hands to her buttocks. She quickly picks out her assailant and looks to the barkeep for help. "You'll have to forgive him. He's the Hand of Sauron," I mutter under my breath. "You'll have to forgive him. He's the Hand of Sauron," says the bartender with a shrug. The Hand has not had a successful night if he fails to do something to elicit that statement. He resumes his conversation with the wide-eyed man next to him, though I strongly suspect that he's only telling that horrible joke with the punchline 'It was a Feet of Hand-Eye coordination.'

I groan, remembering the night that line was conceived, back in the days when being the Witch King still had enough sex appeal to get me the occasional female, when the Oasis was like a market of gorgeous and accessible flesh, not a hole to crawl into to get inebriated. (Speaking of which, I knock back two shots of vodka in rapid succession.) Now I can barely keep a woman around long enough to tell her my name. How pathetic is that?

Well, apparently pathetic enough for this chick, who sits down and lets me order her a rum and coke. We actually manage to have a pleasant conversation; she's sober, and I'm at that point where my tongue is loosened but not yet completely detached from my brain. She is, though, looking at me a bit oddly. "Aren't you one of the Nazgul?"

Aren't we observant tonight. I'm really tempted to issue a caustic response, but she undeniably has the kind of figure that I wouldn't mind tracing in detail. "Guilty as charged," I grin, though since she can't see the grin I can only hope that my tone conveys it. I expect some fangirlish squeal about never having met a Nazgul before or something like that, but it doesn't come. "Doesn't that mean you're incorporeal?"

That was unexpected. Not that I can't handle it, but, I mean, isn't that a bit serious for a first date? "No, I'm fully capable of interacting with physical matter, though most physical sensations are barely noticeable ghosts, except for intense interactions with fire, water, women…"

"You mean sex." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. For example, sex with you would be an intensely pleasant experience for me. And for you too; I'm told that I'm far more virile than your average fleshy man." Shit. Should not have said that, should not have said that, tongue is detaching.

She is visibly torn between being flattered and appalled, but she would need another couple of drinks before the former could win out. I take the remainder of her drink full in the chest as she stalks off. As soon as it becomes apparent that she isn't changing her mind, I dash off to the room of indoor plumbing. I absolutely hate getting wet, and coke is a royal pain to get out once it has soaked in.

Upon emerging, with moister robes but at least the assurance that I won't have the orc launderers (who are a very scary bunch of people despite the frilly uniforms) ticked at me tomorrow, I decide to haunt a different corner of the bar (someone bigger than me took my seat and I'm not armed, as per Sauron's 'No Drinking and Swordplaying' policy). The next table is populated by a handful of young men trying to entertain a trio of ladies by telling bad jokes. It would be very easy to tell them that such tactics don't work, but more entertaining to watch them try and fail, so I listen in as I nurse a gin and tonic. "Stop me if you've heard this one before: Khamul, Gothmog, and the Mouth of Sauron walk into a bar." I have heard this one before. Far too many times. I tune him out, quickly scanning the room to ensure that none of the parties in question are in earshot. The Orc Lieutenant is still passed out in a pool of his own vomit, Khamul is in the middle of losing a drinking game to the Liver of Sauron (which is further indicative of my second-in-command's ability to hold his liquor, because no one with even a few functional brain cells would challenge the Liver to a drinking game), and the Mouth is happily entertaining another group of drinkers with his ability to eat any peanut thrown within a handbreadth of his face.

Looking around the dimly-lit barroom, I can't help but smile as I see the reason I push the Eye so hard to give us these nights off. Tomorrow, hangovers permitting, the orcs will be back to the mundane routine of leading drill, the Nazgul will go out on various patrols and other errands dictated by the Eye, the _Corpus_ will return to its normal tasks (writing undiplomatic missives for the Hand, leading the orcs in services worshipping Sauron for the Mouth, and other such duties), and I will be back at my desk crunching numbers to make sure that my lord's happy little empire can continue operating. But tonight, we are all here, relaxed and either content or unconscious. Tonight, life (or, in my case, the ambiguous state of neither life nor death) is good.

"And Gothmog says, 'Hey! I'm no orc!'" I shake my head as the drunken laughter of the males echoes through the room while the women roll their eyes. In addition to not being particularly funny, the joke was obviously composed by someone who either did not know or did not like the characters in question. Probably one of Saruman's lackeys. Anyone who had ever met those involved would have realized that Khamul would have killed the barkeep after being called a squirrel, assuming that the Mouth hadn't done so after being served a martini stirred rather than shaken.

Speaking of which, I decide to order one. I've definitely passed the point of diminishing returns with my alcohol consumption but, to be honest, at this point I really don't care. Thus the timing of this brunette walking by could not have been worse. She has a particularly shapely ass, and I can hardly be faulted for making a grab at it. Needless to say, that was a less than prudent move but, then again, I am what one might consider drunk. She screams. She has a lovely tone. We could make beautiful music together. And I don't mean just the cliché. I mean a duo recording that could capture the 'Best Scream Album' MAMA (Mordor Association Music Award), which I haven't even been nominated for since recording my arrangements of the_ 3429, Second Age, Overture_ and _Requiem for an Unrepentant Numenor_ with the LSO (Lithlad Symphonic ORCestra). Bloody stupid critics.

Unfortunately, our artistic collaboration proves to be too short to sustain such grand dreams. Her vocal improvisations attract the attention of the bouncers, who encourage me to withdraw from the premises. In no state to argue, I toss enough money on the bar to pay my tab and stalk out to wait with the wargs. At least they're glad to see me. Stupid things look so tough, but through generations of breeding experiments conducted under my oversight it has become apparent that their high endurance is genetically inseparable from a disposition that would make them good housepets in the less urbanized parts of Gondor.

After a few minutes of trying to avoid being drooled on as I pet the silly beasts, I decide to withdraw. As luck would have it, the brunette is leaving as I emerge and I go toward her deliberately, if in a somewhat meandering fashion, unsure whether I intend to apologize or have another grab. She decides not to let me do either, instead slapping me to the ground as soon as I'm in range. The alcohol has clearly hindered my vocalization range, because I whimper, hoping to attract her compassion but only receiving a gob of spit and a sympathetic warg bounding in my direction. As my stomach recoils under the unpleasantness of its breath, I mentally curse the woman for bringing my pleasant night off to a premature conclusion. Women: can't be neither living nor dead with them, can't be neither living nor dead without them. Meh. They'll be the death of me.


End file.
